Anniversaries are a boon to the neglected but Giacomo Puccini, who died in a Brussels clinic on 29 November 1924 aged 65, is already kingpin of operatic Elysium. He can go no higher. His works head the opera performance league tables (yes, there is such a thing – see Operabase). At his death, as well as some $230m by today’s estimate, he left behind a mess of infidelities, illegitimacy and rumours of a butler alleged to have siphoned jewels and bunked off to Monte Carlo. All Puccini cared about was that his final opera, Turandot, would remain unfinished, which proved the case.
The Royal Opera House, without too much departure from the norm, has acknowledged his centenary by packing the schedule with Bohèmes, Toscas and Madama Butterflys between now and July. Nor should we complain. Box office success, given current climes, has never been more essential. These popular works also happen to be creations of genius. If you tire – is such a thing possible? – of the opening horseplay in La bohème, listen to the beady anarchy in the woodwind, or the way the harp suddenly sends the emotional temperature up to boiling point, thereby allowing Mimì, embroiderer of flowers, and Rodolfo, poet, to fall in love in a record-breaking matter of minutes.
